For a Moment
by Lady Genevieve
Summary: Drabbles. Various pairings. CHAPTER 8: Yuki and Neal. Getting up in the morning has never been easy. CHAPTER 9: Roald and Shinko. Wedding night jitters?
1. Aly and Taybur I

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this. If I did, I would be considerably richer. (This applies to all chapters that will follow this one.)

**Author's note: **I intend for this to become a drabble series. Random characters and pairings.

**Drabble 1:** Momentary Temptations

**Warning:** Spoilers for Trickster's Queen, proceed at own risk.

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Momentary temptation. It was little more than that. Over the evening meal their eyes met multiple times. Both were quick to look away, however. One, for the sake of duty, the other for fear of disloyalty.

Alianne Cooper, known to most as Aly, and soon to be Alianne Crow mentally scolded herself and looked down into her lap. Upon smoothing her sarong her fingers lingered over the slight bulge. _Four months_, she told herself,_ I'm four months pregnant. And I love Nawat. Not him._ Nawat's left hand, littered with light scars, lay possessively upon her thigh, a constant reminder.

She looked back up across the table into those dancing eyes and fought to keep her gaze steady. He smiled; it was quick and gone in an instant. A smile of regret. Of what could have been. Had their paths crossed earlier perhaps, had she not been madly in love with the Crow-Man. Perhaps then they could have been something more. Without a doubt they had become friends over the past months, out of respect he had even reined in his flirtations, he certainly did not want Aly's husband-to-be to get the wrong impression.

_But is it more than friendship?_ Captain Taybur Sibigat had asked himself. Multiple times in fact. He could not deny that he liked the woman who sat opposite, sipping her soup delicately. He also accepted that he had lusted after Aly. For months, before he knew who she was those brief, snappy encounters had helped to keep his senses sharp, to keep his head on his shoulders.

Had that desire remained after the rebellion? Taybur had tried to lie, tried to push it to the back of his mind. He had a duty to his Queen. His thoughts should not wander. And if they did it should be brief. He did not understand why he was unable to form relationships like the old meaningless ones. Nights spent between the covers, no sentiments. Then, in the morning that followed – the bed was his own again, none of the others had lingered in his mind longer than that. That was the kind of relationship that was expected of him. Or a noble marriage, but that was as improbable as Aly ever returning his affections.

Taybur sighed and gave Aly a final smile across the table. It had to stop. He could not allow himself to ruin their marriage for the sake of satisfying his own whims. Standing abruptly, he excused himself from the meal and left the dining hall.

"What was that all about, love?" murmured Nawat, his hand creeping further up her thigh.

Aly flashed him a grin. "Nothing," she said deftly and closed her eyes as Nawat's hand began to trail up her body, feather light. For a moment, she was struck with a memory.

_Hands, larger than Nawat's certainly, were clasped gently around the darking. Taybur had tried to contain his pleasure in finding the creatures and Aly had tried to stay in character. She was Aly Homewood, a maid. She knew nothing of Spot and his escapades in Dunevon's chambers. As she tried to tremble and act suitably afraid Taybur had deposited the creature into her palm. His hand lingered for a moment and then trailed lightly up her forearm returning to rest upon her wrist. Seconds later, Aly could have sworn she imagined it, but another part of her could not deny the shivers that had just run up and down her spine at his slight touch._

Aly grinned and opened her mouth to remind Taybur of that day, perhaps he could clarify her memory. Her heart skipped a beat and she was jolted back to the present. Taybur had left the room and she was sitting on Nawat's lap, purring like a kitten.

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Hopefully, the first of many drabbles to come. I don't know if this one will be continued but I would love to hear your opinion of it. I have always held the view that Aly and Taybur are a better match than Aly and Nawat and I have wanted to write something similar to this for a long time. More to come soon.


	2. Aly and Taybur II

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

**Drabble 2:** Three?

**Warning:** Spoilers for Trickster's Queen, proceed at own risk.

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Taybur watched Aly and Nawat walking along the dock with a bemused smile and heavy heart. Two months ago they had retreated to their new estate on the island of Gempang, expecting the arrival of their first child. _Trickster laughs_, he thought idly as he saw that together they carried not one, but three babies in their arms. Triplets.

He swallowed and strode forward to meet both his friends. The smile given to him by Aly was not the same as the one he had received months earlier. Without a doubt, the friendship was still there. But nothing else. He was unable to see any trace of the sparkle that Aly had reserved for him and was forced to conclude there are some things lust cannot overcome. And for Aly, it was motherhood. Truthfully, Taybur would be thoroughly surprised if Aly managed to sleep in next few months, let alone flirt.

Nawat closed the gap between them, hand out, face glowing with the new joy of fatherhood. "You're the welcoming party then Taybur?" he said with a good natured smile.

"The one and only," Taybur concurred as his hand was grasped and well shook by Nawat.

Aly cocked an eyebrow and gave a slight pout. "No welcome for poor old me then _Captain Sibigat_?" Taybur grinned as Nawat plucked a gurgling baby from his wife's arms and pushed her lightly forward, somehow managing to hold all three babies at once.

Instantly Taybur was enveloped in a warm, tight hug. Perhaps, Aly had not changed so much. Even her perfume was the same finicky scent – orange blossom and ginger; a bizarre mix. After all, if they couldn't be lovers then surely they could remain the best of friends?

"Well Alianne," Taybur drawled. "It appears you have your hands full. Mithros blessed, three?"

A dramatic sigh and grin were offered as reply. Then, she said, "At least they didn't come out as eggs, eh?"

"That would have been interesting, without a doubt." He paused then added, seriously this time, "How will you manage?"

"Well as I see it, it shan't be a problem. With you as godsfather, perhaps nursemaid even, Nawat and I shall have all the time in the world."

"Don't even think of foisting your offspring onto me, Aly."

"So you don't want to be a godsparent, along with Dove, then?" replied Aly.

Taybur smiled scooping a squawking baby from Nawat's arms. "Of course I do. Do you not realise that I trained my whole life to look after troublesome children?"

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Whether or not I continue to write Aly/Taybur/Nawat drabbles is still to be decided. I think, however, I shall leave them to stew for a while under the Copper Island sun.

As such, does anyone have any drabble requests? I'm thinking of doing a Daine/Numair, Raoul/Buri and Miri/Evin soon but I'm open to writing almost anything that isn't too twisted.


	3. Neal, Numair and Daine

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

**Drabble 3:** Fear

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Fear, Neal decided, was a relative thing. He had been afraid when his brothers died, when his father had gone off to war and the first time he had met the Stump. But none of this compared to his fear of Numair Salmalin at this present moment in time. Why? Well, it was simple, if not embarrassing enough to explain.

Neal had first seen _her_ just days after he began his training as a page. He had intended to visit his father to bemoan his latest injury – a broken finger from staff work that morning – and try to get the man to give him pity, at the very least. He had, of course, not healed the finger himself. Neal was intent on milking this situation for all it was worth.

The limp with which Neal walked was exaggerated and he clutched at his hand like a soldier about to have his sword arm amputated. That was where he first bumped into _her_. Quiet literally bumped into. He had been rounding a corner mere metres from the Healers' Wing when they crashed into one another.

He tumbled to the floor and fell rather painfully onto his shoulder. _Great, another injury to add to my list_, he had told himself. Then he looked up and in a moment all thoughts of pity, pain and the tyrant also known as 'the Stump' were erased from his mind and replaced, miraculously, by one simple thing: love.

The woman, no, the Goddess that stood above him was perfect. Smoky grey curls that fought to escape their pins surrounded a small face with a delicate nose, stubborn chin and blue-grey eyes.

"Sorry," she said with the slightest hint of a smile. Her lips, perfect, were made for laughter. "I didn't see you I guess Page…"

"Neal," he murmured, transfixed. "Page Nealan of Queenscove. And who may you be, my lovely lady?" He bowed low and waited for a response.

She gave a slight giggle and merely said, "I'm Daine, Nealan. It's a pleasure to meet a son of Duke Baird, he is an excellent healer."

Neal was unable to place the name, although he did not doubt that he had heard it before. Numerous times, in fact. "Well Lady Daine, it is an honour to meet you." With those words Neal fled, forgetting even to visit his father and try and extract pity from the man.

It was thus that Neal met the famed Wildmage. If he had kept an ear to the wall as most who live at the palace do, he would have been quick to realise that Daine was courting none other than the most powerful mage in the Eastern lands: Numair Salmalin. Instead, Neal remained blissfully ignorant of the fact and began to create elaborate plans so as to see the woman again.

Unfortunately for the page, Daine's lover, when not lost in his arcane experiments and the like kept a keen eye upon the pages. Numair noticed immediately the way Queenscove's eyes seemed to follow his Magelet around, the way that the youth took in her modest curves with an appreciative smile and the way he seemed suspiciously disinclined to stand up whenever she was present in the classes he gave the pages. And he certainly wasn't impressed.

It was after one such episode where the normally outspoken Neal had remained moodily silent all lesson, scribbling on his parchment, that Numair held him back after the lesson.

"Queenscove," he said quietly, biding his time until all the other pages had left the classroom. "Is there anything that you would like to talk to me about?"

Neal's mind reeled. In truth, he had no clue what the mage was going on about. "I don't understand Master Salmalin."

"You were inattentive today during class, writing Gods know what over your work." With a quick movement Numair stooped and grabbed a paper out of Neal's hand.

His eyes flew across the parchment, narrowing as they went. Neal blushed, wishing himself to the bottom of the Great Inland Sea as the mage began to read aloud: "Dearest Daine, O' flower of my heart, You leave me in pain, I yearn for you like my father does apple tart. I give word – maiden fair, Our love ne'er to be drenched, And hope as I dare, My flame for you ne'er quenched."

Neal swallowed and prayed that Numair would not read the verses that followed as they grew more and more ardent in the admiration of his Goddess, his flower…"Queenscove!" Neal's train of thought was interrupted by Numair who appeared to have read the rest of his poetry silently. He looked up and immediately regretted it. The mage's anger was evident and yet, poor Neal was still confused. "Yes Master Salmalin?"

"What is your intention for this…erm…poetry?"

"I would have thought that my intention is quite clear, sir," Neal could not stop himself from saying with the tiniest of smirks.

Numair's tone changed immediately from light conversational to deadly threat. "You do realise that Daine and I are courting? And that this-," he flapped the paper about wildly, "-might be construed as offensive?"

This was too much for Neal who blushed right to the roots of his hair. "You…and Daine?" he asked, incredulous. And, as if this were not bad enough, his rampant traitor of a tongue saw fit to add, "But you are much too old for her."

"Do not tell me what is fit for me to do or not to do," snapped the mage, pushed to the limits of his self-control. "Whatever this-," he shook the paper in Neal's face again, "-may be let me assure you that if it does not stop _immediately_ I will be paying a visit to your father."

Neal blanched. _He couldn't do that, could he?_ Again, the traitorous tongue tried to remedy the situation. "I did not know Master Salmalin," Neal stuttered. "I do not follow court gossip, I just returned from a summer spent at Queenscove, no one would have expected it, I mean, the age difference must be…what…14 years at least…"

"ENOUGH!" boomed Numair. "I am in no mood to hear anymore excuses from you Page Nealan of Queenscove. But sure that you stay away from my Daine." There was a lengthy pause in which Numair's eyes bored into Neal's and the page swallowed pure, unadulterated fear – there was no telling what the mage would do if further riled. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, quite clearly," Neal squeaked and fled consumed with fear for life, limb and love.

Staring moodily at his ceiling that night Neal concluded that there was none as fearsome as Master Numair Salmalin and he decided that perhaps, it would be best to put off his courting of the Wildmage. Well, at least until he had earned his shield and was able to challenge the mage to a duel.

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I truly appreciate reviews, so if you enjoyed, please do push the little purple button.


	4. Kel and Dom

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

**Drabble 4:** Flowery Names

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Kel/Dom as requested by **katieo9239**, enjoy.

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The hall of Fort Steadfast was crowded, hot and full to the rafters with noise. Kel needed to be outside, needed air, needed to escape from the boisterous revelries of Buri and Raoul's wedding reception. This in itself proved difficult to achieve with the men of the Own trying again and again to drag the Lady Knight onto the dance floor. After denying Lerant a dance (she did not feel so bad, already having danced with the Standard Bearer six times that evening) she hurried out of Steadfast's vaulted hall and into the fresh air.

"Too much fun for our Lady Knight?" a voice drawled from behind. Kel spun to face a grinning Dom who reclined with cat-like grace against the wall of one of the barracks.

"Certainly," replied Kel, ignoring the butterflies that began to flutter in her stomach. "And yourself?"

Dom pondered his response for a moment. "Do you ever let go, Kel?" he asked quietly.

"Let go?" Kel pondered the meaning of the phrase with growing incredulity. "I like my work Dom, I take it seriously. Do I deserve a reprimand for that?"

"Of course not," he assured her. "But we are guests at a wedding. You can relax, drink, be merry…" he trailed off.

"I dislike the feeling alcohol leaves me with," Kel said quietly. She did not like the way this conversation was going. Not at all. "And you Dom, you haven't been drinking?"

As he grinned again Kel thought that the King ought to pass a law forbidding certain good-looking blue-eyed sergeants from making her feel like some foolish court maiden. "Mithros no," Dom replied. "My head still hurts from Neal's reception last night and I am only just regaining my ability to walk in a straight line, O' Beautiful Keladry."

Kel laughed in spite of herself. "Flowery names will get you nowhere Sergeant Domitan of Masbolle," she said. "Cleon used to call me silly things like that."

Dom smiled craftily and added, voice husky, "Well it got _him_ somewhere, didn't it?" Kel was certainly glad at this point that the darkness hid her blush. She would not dignify _that_ comment with a response. "So I cannot call you 'Keladry my Petal'?"

"No."

"'Luminescent Apple of my Eye'?"

"Definitely not."

"'Wondrous Scanran Slayer'?"

"Hmm…"

"Is that a yes, my dove?"

"I'm not 'your dove', Dom."

"Do you want to be?" When she looked into Dom's eyes Kel found no mockery, only a fierce desire that made her shiver.

Kel's mind began to reel and she said the only thing that she could come up with: "Are you trying to proposition me Dom?" Somehow the space between the two had reduced and Kel could feel Dom's warm breath on her cheek, a stark contrast to the chill of the night.

Dom leant in slightly so that his lips were placed next to her ear and whispered, so quiet that she almost missed it, "Only if you want me to, Kel." Behind his words there was no bravado, no masculine superiority, only honesty and a plea of sorts. Dom was laying his cards on the table then stepping back to let Kel make the decision.

Kel placed a hand upon his chest surprised to feel his heart fluttering as wildly as hers was. She smiled, glad that she wasn't the only nervous one. "Dom?" she whispered.

"Yes?" Dom swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice even. _Gods_, he thought,_ if only she knew what she does to me_.

"I don't want this to change anything between us." Kel's fingers dug into Dom's shirt, twisting it as she tugged him closer still. Her hands went to the back of his neck, his to her waist. She tilted her chin up a scant inch and eased her lips onto his slowly. For a moment they remained there, exploring Dom's own lips, learning his taste until she pulled away, hesitant.

It was Dom's turn to be bold as he lowered his mouth onto hers, kissing her back, all previous fear replaced instead by hope. Dom smiled as he learnt that Kel tasted of apple cider, his favourite, and continued to discover her mouth sucking gently on her lower lip until she gasped and he slid his tongue in. As they kissed, the logical part of Kel's mind registered that even when she had been with Cleon she had never been kissed like this. Sweetness fell short in describing the feeling of warmth that surged through Kel's entire body.

Kel's fingers were grappling with the ties of Dom's tunic, his with the laces of her bodice. Their kisses were becoming more and more passionate and Kel was on the verge of giving in to temptation. She pulled away shaking with built up lust and apprehension.

"What is it, Kel?" Dom's voice was laced thick with concern. He could feel his friend shaking against him. "I…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to move so fast with you. I've been dreaming about this for ages."

"It's not you Dom," Kel murmured, then smiled at her own folly: "Well it is, but you've haven't hurt me. The opposite, rather. But, please understand, I…" Kel didn't quite know how to phrase it without hurting Dom's feelings so she opted for something that Raoul had said to her once: "I don't play fast and loose with people."

Dom smiled cupping her cheek with a large hand. "Of course not," he said kissing her forehead then cheek lightly. "You have too much of a good reputation for that."

"Can we…do you mind if we don't…" Kel didn't complete her sentence but instead left it hanging praying that she wouldn't have to spell it out for Dom. She liked him, but she wasn't ready sleep with him. Not quite yet.

"Don't worry Kel," Dom said with a grin. "Should it be necessary I shall wait for years to carry you off to my bed and ravish you."

Kel smiled. "I doubt you shall have to wait that long, O' Sergeant Mine, but I'm just not quite ready."

"Now who's calling who flowery names?"

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_My_ heroines always kiss the man first.

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	5. Buri and Raoul

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

**Drabble 5:** Learning to Share

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Night had descended quickly upon the Seventeenth Rider Group and the Third Company of King's Own. That night's camp had been set up amid many growls due to dwindling supplies of no bugs potion and tempers were on edge.

"Raoul, this is just getting ridiculous," Buri snapped pushing hair out of her unusually flushed face. She looked up at the low ceiling of their canvas tent and resisted the sudden urge to knee her lover where it would hurt.

"Come on love," murmured Raoul somewhat wickedly. "We've only been at it for an hour."

"An hour too long," she snapped. "Look, you might just have to accept that we cannot _both _fit into your bedroll. I'm sorry, it's just not going to work."

"I'm_ sure _we can fit. There's always been plenty of room for me and _you're_ tiny."

"Thanks," said Buri dryly, pummelling Raoul lightly in the chest with a small fist. Together they sat staring indignantly at the bedroll in front of them; Buri wearing a deep scowl, breast band and loincloth and Raoul clad just in his loincloth laced with the expression an adult might wear when about to scold a petulant child.

"We could just go to that clearing a mile back," suggested Raoul mildly. "Nice, secluded-"

"-Cold," interrupted Buri. "I don't know if Jon would listen but I'm sure if we petitioned Thayet for larger standard issue bedrolls she'd acquiesce."

"Why?" Raoul asked curiously.

Buri snorted. "She tried to get me to swear not to tell. Do you remember a few months back when the Progress stopped for a night at that marsh ten miles out from Fief Tirragen?" Raoul nodded, he distinctly recalled that leg of the dratted Progress – it was the only one where the Monarchs had been unable to spend the night in a village, the holdings of Tirragen consisted mainly of sweeping fields and forest: villages were few and far apart. "Well she told me about the night she and Jon spent in their tent." Buri paused, grinning at the memory.

"Jon's never been much of a tent boy, has he?"

"Exactly my point, love. So, somehow Jon got in his head that if they had to spend the night in a tent they might as well be warm. Thayet suggested, as you did, that perhaps they could both fit in a bedroll. Jon, of course, had more…_interesting_… plans for their evening." Buri and Raoul trading knowing grins. "Of course, belonging to the world of embroidered quilts and soft mattresses you can imagine the repercussions of their…_exploits_. The next morning Thayet got up so sore she can barely walk, let alone ride." Buri shook her head with a grimace, she had woken up several times recently sore from the night's activities, but she at least was used to sleeping on the hard ground – Thayet had no such experience. "If only they had fit into that bedroll."

"What about Jon?" asked Raoul. He knew the Queen well enough to know that Jon would have suffered from this somehow.

"Oh," Buri added with an indulgent smile towards her lover. "He was banished from their bedchamber for a month."

"Gods."

They resumed their staring at the bedroll. "C'mon," growled the K'mir. "Let's try again."

"Of course, my dear," replied Raoul, sliding in first. Inch my inch Buri wriggled her body into the bedroll, a task more difficult than one might have thought. This was, however, mainly due to the fact that Raoul seemed insistent upon nipping and teasing any bare skin of Buri's that his mouth managed to come in contact with.

One Buri was inside and flush against Raoul's chest she looked up into his sloe black eyes. "More achievable than I would have thought," she murmured. "I don't know what Jon's problem was." Trussed up together like a pair of caterpillars in a too small cacoon Buri and Raoul were unable to move a muscle.

"Now…" said Raoul his eyes glinting with mirth, "How do we make love in this thing?"

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The idea is from one of my fifty themes on Buri and Raoul called "Tortall's Worst Kept Secret." (Shameless plug…)


	6. Neal, George and Alanna

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1

**Drabble 6:** A Change of Plans

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"I thought you were going to take the girl as your squire, lass," George murmurs into his wife's ear over dinner.

Alanna's face becomes drawn as her violet eyes search for someone to glare at. The source of her fury, however, is not present. "Jonathan-," she snaps _his_ name as if invoking a curse. "-remains beneath Wyldon's thumb. As soon as I arrived I saw that I had no chance of talking to Keladry, let alone taking her as my squire."

George sighs. He had warned Alanna before she left for Corus that Jon would not bend. She had argued ceaselessly that Jon would want her back at court after four years, not matter the price. Even if it were allowing the King's Champion to take the Girl as her squire. But she had been wrong.

"Why Baird's son, then?" George asks quietly eyeing the new squire who sits at the other end of the table, alone, scowling into his plate of vegetables.

"He is Keladry's best friend, I am told." George smiles – he had no doubt that his lass would be able to continue helping the girl, subtly at least as she had during Keladry's years as a page. "Plus, Baird says he needs more training with his healing Gift."

"And Keladry?"

"It's sorted," Alanna says quietly with a tiny frown. "If I could not be her Knight-Mistress, I had to find someone else suitable – Raoul did say he was thinking about asking her anyway. I couldn't leave her with a desk-knight." Alanna pauses with a grimace. "Gary was going to take her if no one else asked by the end of summer," she snorts, "He needed a paper shuffler – as usual up to his elbows in documents…the poor man."

"Always championing someone aren't you, my love?" Alanna smiles, not bothering to argue back. "Why is Queenscove sitting all the way down there, Alanna?"

"I do believe the boy is afraid of me." She grins somewhat evilly.

"Why so?"

"Oh, you know I'm a bear in the morning." George nods, he can certainly attest to that. "I may have lost my temper a little this morning. But he's just so – argh!"

"Argh?" asks George. "Argumentative?" Alanna nods. "Infuriating?" Alanna nods again. "Unwilling to drop anything?" Nod. "Unable to keep his views to himself?" Nod. "Sounds like someone I know," George teases tweaking Alanna's nose. "Come on lass, don't leave him to stew all alone, drag him over here."

"Squire," Alanna calls down the table. Neal jerks his head up from his untouched meal and raises an eyebrow in question. "Come join the Baron and I." Neal swallows hard. He was perfectly happy lost in his musings. Gathering up his food he slinks down to the other end of the long table, slipping into a seat one away from his Knight-Mistress.

"I don't bite," Alanna snaps tapping the seat next to her. Hesitantly, Neal relocates again and Alanna misses his sarcastic comment, "Of course not, _my lady_."

"So Nealan," says George. "How do you like being a squire?"

For a moment Neal stares at the man as if his senses have departed him and then takes a bite of his meal to avoid answering the question. With a shudder he swallows the carrots and decides that even answering the question is better than eating his vegetables. "It's…educational."

The Baron smiles. He likes the boy already. "How so?" he needles.

Neal scowls. He had tried to make his answer as closed as possible so as to deter further questioning. "Well," Neal considers. "I didn't think that I would be in this position, Kel should be here not me."

"Nealan," Alanna says, tired already of this argument – they had it daily on their ride to Pirate's Swoop. "We've covered this already. End of conversation."

"It's Neal, not Nealan," Neal mutters darkly.

George smiles, unsure if Neal knows that it's best not to push his Lioness' temper or if he is just testing the limits of his Knight-Mistress' patience.

"Well _Neal_, let me make it clear," says Alanna. "Do not try to rile me, annoy me or ever talk to me before I've had my breakfast and I'm sure that we will get on fine. If not, let's just say that the next four years are going to be fun. For me."

"'Lanna," George warns quietly. Alanna raises an eyebrow, an exact replica of Neal's earlier expression, then nods. Neal watches this hasty exchange with a shocked expression – he never imagined that anyone could calm the Lioness so quickly.

"Sorry Neal," she mutters. "I'm just getting used to you. You'll learn my quirks fast enough." She pauses. "Do you have any questions for me?"

Neal blinks. "When's bedtime?"

"Good question," Alanna grins. "Next question."

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Hmm…I've decided that I'm going to try not to write more than one chapter on any given pairing until I've tried all others…within reason.

Reviews are highly valued. So are story alerts, although I must admit that it scares me to have story alerts from people who haven't reviewed. Stalkers. 


	7. Jon and Thayet

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1

**Drabble 7:** Uncharacteristic

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Jon/Thayet as requested by **Lady Knight Keladry** – I hope that you enjoy this one.

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Thayet sighs, flopping ungracefully onto the bed and allowing herself to sink into the richly embroidered covers. She places a long hand with ring studded fingers upon her growing belly and growls in frustration. A mother-to-be is expected to be temperamental, yes, but a queen is not. Today, Thayet does not feel like a queen. A queen does not have mood swings to the point where she throws her chocolate dessert at her husband, she does not force her husband to sleep on the couch and she most certainly does not threaten her husband with castration for venturing a comment of his own.

The Realm of Tortall is in a state of celebration. Their new queen is seven months pregnant and, for all intensive purposes, in perfect health. Whispers of the 'unlucky King' are fading rapidly replaced by those that speak of the 'fruit of the womb' and others sayings that make Thayet shudder. Thayet wonders if the fool who coined the phrase 'fruit of the womb' has ever had a child. She highly doubts it – she is sure it comes from a minstrel or bard whose sugared words have succeeded in deluding men and women alike about the joys of impending motherhood.

_There's no joy in this_, Thayet thinks bitterly to herself. _Jon should be counting his blessings if I ever let him within ten feet of this bed again._ With another sigh Thayet tries to compose herself, moping is not acceptable in a queen. Jon's shuffling footsteps can be heard as he enters their suite and quietly shuts the door after him.

Jon pauses at the doorway, unsure. He had thought that she would have fallen asleep before he returned, had considered even the possibility of sliding into bed next to her and closing his eyes with one had on her belly, the other entwined in her hair.

Thayet sits up as Jon walks in, dragging his boots off as his comes. Stains of chocolate dessert remain upon his crinkled tunic and he looks concerned. "Thayet," he begins nervously. "I know that you probably don't want me here, I just wanted to make sure you were sleeping well."

She nods, weary and unwilling to turn this into another argument. "I'm sick of being pregnant." Thayet addresses herself to the canopy above the bed rather than her husband. "I'm not having a fun time of it." She pauses, pushing herself up to face Jon, she wants him to understand. "I feel as big as an ox, my ankles are swollen and I _waddle_."

"But you waddle beautifully, my dear," Jon contends, his smile reaching sapphire eyes. Thayet cannot help but grin, just a little. Taking this as a good sign Jon closes the gap between them, sitting on the bed next to her and wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "Thayet, we're going to be _parents_. You're carrying around the heir of Tortall."

Thayet looks down at her bulge. "Even if it's a girl?"

Jon nods, kissing her temple, behind her ear and her neck tenderly. "Especially if it's a girl, love." It is Thayet who initiates the next kiss. Turning her face up to meet his Thayet is overcome by the passion and the love that she sees in Jon's eyes. Her lips take his slowly; tasting, exploring, probing and looking for the reassurance and strength that she needs to get from him. He deepens the kiss, hands exploring her body which has blossomed over the past months and for him, intensified, not reduced his desire to hold her, to be with her.

Thayet pulls back, panting lightly with a shadow smile on her face and a glimmer in her eyes. "You taste like chocolate," she moans in his ear before catching the lobe between her teeth.

"I wonder why that is," says Jon dryly as he pulls her into his arms and back onto the bed with him.

- - - - - - - - - -

I like to think that Thayet can't be perfect all the time. She's always seemed to me like that girl at school whose hair is always in place and whose make-up is perfect. But really, she's just as flawed as the rest of us mere mortals.

(I seriously didn't think I'd have as much fun with this one as I did.)

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	8. Yuki and Neal

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1

**Drabble 8:** Remembering.

**Warning: **This is still "T"…but this chapter is perhaps…maybe…a little…erm…detailed. (And oh so much fun to write. I should do this more often.)

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Neal/Yuki for **Grace of Masbolle**– sorry that it's a little short.

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"Now, _Nealan_." Yuki's voice was winter cold. She was in no mood to be trifled with.

"Yuki," groaned Neal trying in vain to hide under the bed covers. "It's not even light."

"I know that. Now, get up." Yuki walked out of their bedroom calling behind her: "You have five minutes to be up and dressed and awake. If not I will leave without you. We need to be well on the road to Queenscove by midday."

Neal muttered a curse under his breath and opened bleary eyes. It was _her_ fault that he was tired. After last night…Neal grinned at the memory and looked around their bedroom. Yuki's obi was nowhere in sight, her outer kimono lay crumpled near the hearth, inner kimono thrown carelessly onto the desk. He couldn't quite remember where his tunic had gone or, for that matter, his shirt, breeches and loincloth. Suffice to say, they were gone. Perhaps swallowed into the fierce lust and burning passion that had consumed them both last night.

Neal shrugged. Those sorts of details were not important. He remembered the essentials from the night before…her inner kimono was the colour of rust and smooth as silk, beneath that her shift and stockings were the softest gold and he could feel her shivers as he caressed her through the delicate fabric, slowly, teasingly.

The taste of her lips on his – green tea, his new favourite flavour, her insistent fingers tugging at his shirt ties, her hands tracing intricate patterns up and down his back, her lips upon his neck - biting and teasing, his mouth caressing the hollows of her collarbones. He recalled the way their bodies seemed to mesh perfectly, like two pieces of a whole, reunited. Even the way she had giggled after they were done. He had never thought that Yuki could _giggle_.

Recollections were shattered as his lover, friend and wife came back into their room. "What are you doing, Neal?" she snapped, waving her fan threateningly.

Neal gave a lopsided grin. "Just remembering last night," he said with a smile. "You were quite insistent, my love."

Yuki crossed the room in three strides and sat down on the bed, trailing fingers up and down her husband's chest. "Indeed," she murmured dryly, with only the merest of blushes. "Well," she continued. "I am just as insistent now. Get up." Yuki prodded Neal sharply in the chest. "Don't make me make you," she whispered in his ear. "You might enjoy it a little less than last night."

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Just a quick note to say that, no, I have not forsaken you all. My final high school exams are but three weeks distant and hence study seems like a somewhat pivotal thing to be concentrating on right now. This does _not_ mean that I will stop updating, rather, just that you may have to be patient with me. Come November 21st, I'll be a free woman and updating (perhaps if you're super kind) once daily.

Reviews make me grin manically.


	9. Roald and Shinko

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1

**Drabble 9:** At last.

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Roald/Shinko for **Grace of Masbolle** and **queenshinkokami**, it's short, I know.

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He began slowly. Nervously. Hands soft, gentle. Coaxing whispers that barely left his lips were swallowed into the flickering light of the room. The last thing he wanted was to scare her away. Never before had he thought of her as a bird, ready to startle at any moment, but he did now. Throughout the wedding her hands had gripped his with hope but as they danced and swirled it turned to something close to desperation. _Is she scared?_ Roald questioned himself. _Perhaps._

The wedding plans had gone on for much too long, both had held back as much as they could, almost as much as propriety dictated. The most they had had before was a few stolen kisses in secluded hallways. Never before had they been truly alone, truly together. Together at last.

"Shinko," Roald began nervously as he clasped shaking hands tightly behind his back. "I…" he faltered as his very sapphire eyes met hers. He swallowed hard. This would not do. They were in love for Mithros' sake. He began again: "We have all night and we don't have to do anything you don't want."

Shinko had pulled out a fan, unfurling it with the tiniest flick of her wrist. She hid the lower part of her face. "But Roald," she paused, unsure of what to say. "It is a wife's duty."

The Crown Prince of Tortall shook his head vehemently. "No, Shinko," he whispered, intent that she understood. "We are equals. _Anything_ we do should be because you desire it, no because it is what is expected of you."

The intricate carvings of cherry blossoms on the woodwork of Shinko's fan danced seductively as her hand shook and it took all of Roald's willpower to keep his hands firmly locked behind his back. "Well," said Shinko quietly, musingly. "Will you kiss me then?"

Roald was flabbergasted. "Shinko, you…you're sure?"

A sound not unlike a sigh issued from the normally composed Yamani as she snapped her fan shut and grabbed her new husband by the front of his tunic in one fluid movement. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes meeting his in a silent challenge. A slow smile found Roald's face as he leant in and placed a soft kiss upon her forehead.

Shinko smiled inwardly and shook her head. _Roald, the eternal gentleman_. "A proper kiss, silly," she murmured and was pleased when Roald blushed, just a little. He swallowed.

"Shinko…" Roald began as he bit his lip. He didn't want her to think that he was going to take advantage of her…as much as part of his mind knew that that was _exactly _what he wanted to do. She raised an eyebrow slightly and then gave him the most wicked smile he'd ever seen from the calm Yamani.

In a moment Shinko had pressed her lips firmly to his, hands tightening upon his tunic and backed her husband up against a wall. There was nothing chaste to be said for the kiss followed. It was fire, months of suppressed desire expressed in a brief moment and intoxicating beyond belief. After tensing momentarily Roald relaxed and took his wife into his arms, kissing her back until she was forced to pull back for air.

She poked him lightly in the chest. "I want this," she said plainly. "Not for duty, Roald, for you and only you."

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Ah, Roald the eternal gentleman. Or something like that. He's so lovely and I just know that he'd treat dear Shinko like a porcelain doll until she showed him otherwise.

Sorry for the slow update.


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